#a relic of the past century | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mehiwilldoitlater · 4 months ago

Note

Hi! i really love your writing about wukong and reader and i always waiting what's new from you 😄

can i request?,

am i the only one who put interest to the broken sage shell?

can you write about reader who in the past she was wukong's most beloved person, and she join Bajie (who also know the reader very close) to accompany destine one till the final fight with wukong's stone monkey. however the stone monkey or in broken sage shell mode, even as broken shell he still can sense her presence, and miss the reader so much even for just a touch, when he knock down the destine one so badly, he take his time to walk closer to the reader who watching the scene from a small boat behind transparant wall 🥺

Thank you!

Sorry for my english 🙈

As the story said, the Lady Bone demon was a mere spectacle, a monster that wanted nothing but to devour the Tang Monk. The story said that she was merely a cause of the first exile of Sun Wukong and that she had done nothing special per se.

But no one ever said the other side of the story. That the demon once was a servant for the Celestial Court, then the bride of the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, and only then became the monster that she was.

When the Destined One First Met you, what he saw was a mysterious ally to his quest, a Yaoguai that could manipulate ICE and had some strange abilities. What he didn't know was that you were an old acquaintance of old Bajie...and maybe something more.

When he saw you hug each other like friends that haven't seen each other for decades, he knew that he could trust you.

"Ah! Pesky Witch! Were you hiding yourself for so long?!" The old pig laughed, giving you some strong pats on your back.

"Hiding from that snout of your, old pig!"

Bajie explained then everything—or at least what Wukong wanted him to know. He did understand the surprise in the Destined One's eyes, knowing that the Great Sage did in fact have a wife that turned into a demon for grief. Well, it was a lot, but he was used to learning more about the old king that he was supposed to.

"I didn't know...no one knows...why?"

Your gentile gaze was veiled by a sadness, old like the legend itself.

"Oh young one, if I knew the reason for it, I would have certainly found piece by piece."

And so, you helped him.

Maybe it was that gloom that still unted your eyes when you were talking about your deceased husband; maybe it was Hope or just some silly fantasy of yours, but you did trust the destined one. You wanted to trust him and the idea that your beloved husband could be back together once more.

So you helped him, you followed him, and you assisted him, just like Bajie. Both of you became the nearest thing to a parent that the young monkey ever had, and this thing never bothered you.

And so, when the relics were reunited, you Hope still stood, only to be crushed by the painful truth.

Sun Wukong was long gone. Your husband was gone.

You didn't cry; maybe you knew that it was just a silly hope, or maybe you had already consumed all of your tears in the last centuries.

Or so you thought, because rivers of tears were falling when that stone creature, only a shell of what once was Sun Wukong, was slowly approaching the wall in his mind.

Even as a fragment, he was strong; he was able to outstrip your young protege in one strike.

"PLEASE DON'T HURT HIM! MY LOVE, DON'T DO THAT TO THE BOY!"

He stopped, and the staff stopped on his finale strike. Those burning flames that he had as eyes searched for the origin of the voice, and they met you.

A long past memory, regrets, hope, and love.

While the younger monkey was getting back on his feet, the shell slowly approached the wall where you were watching the fight, refusing to move forward there. Despite the heaviness of this aura, you didn't flinched. How could you? He was never a threat for you, and Brother was now.

He was there, only the thing Wall of his Mind separated the both of you, just like the thing line of life and death. Like Always...

His hand reached the wall, now resting where your own was. You could swear that you could sense that warmth that it was always meant just for you—the warmth of the sun and the kind fire of the house that you wanted to share with him.

Your cry stopped, realizing the most agonizing reality that your poor heart could feel: despite the time, the distance, and death itself, he had never forgotten you. As a mall portion of you was still alive in that shell.

Even now, he was trying to console your cry and tell you that it hurt him more than anything seeing you like that.

He loved you. After all that time, he still loved you.

You wanted to hold his hand; even though it was made of stone, you wished to hold him once again. Instead, your tears fell on the boat, Bajie watching this heartbreaking scene, uncapable to say anything that could help.

"I wished nothing more than to hold you again in my arms, my love." You said between hiccups and sighs. Your forehead touched the wall; he mimicked that action, trying everything to just feel you.

"But before me... I want your own happiness... it's just like you always said, I'm too nice."

The destined one was once again on his feet, the weapon of your husband in his hand. He approached the scene, his hurt grieving for you now.

"I love you...more than everything. Be free, my love."

And while two lovers shared an untouchable kiss, the final strike settled the fight.

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ekebolou · 21 days ago

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I get that people have complicated relationships with higher education, and that's 100% reasonable, but there's something I want to point out.

when you hear a popular podcast or youtuber or history show or see a popular history book or article say it's 'revealing' or 'uncovering' or 'bringing to light' or 'reevaluating' some story of the past, it's usually doing so off of academic history work done by people in academia.

Journalists and your average YouTuber are generally the worst about not crediting this work,* but it's there in the background, nonetheless.

That work - academic research, particularly of this kind, and the articles, books, and other information it produces - doesn't get done without institutional support. That is, like with everything, sure some enthusiasts will keep at their particular interests hell or high water, and rich folks can peruse to their hearts' content - that's what fueled the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries' ever-increasing investigative output.

And that should be concerning, not comforting.

Not because all of that output was wrong or terrible or misguided - a lot was, but much of it is still essential, foundational, exceedingly rigorous and useful - but because much of modern history work, twentieth century on, has been a century-long battle to correct some of deeply culturally embedded beliefs an almost wholly dilettante pursuit of the past generated. It's kind of a joke in English-language scholarship that the Victorians ruined everything, but like, for real, y'all, the Victorians left us some BURDENS, from fake relics created for ~the aesthetic~ to defaced and destroyed historical documents.

Academic research in itself is not some kind of panacea. we're not shitting on dilettantes (I am very much a dilettante, in my way) and so-called 'amateurs', who are vital and excellent contributors to knowledge. We're also not saying institutions are always perfect and good and don't need to change. I'm saying that robust, diverse, in-depth, careful, broadly reaching, and most of all interesting and new scholarship requires something on the scale of institutional support.

This is not just because that's where your historians live, but because in a very practical sense, that's where your archives live. You do actually need a big building stuffed with Things Of The Past well-maintained and with a core of well-trained and extremely cool (like librarians, all archivists are extremely cool in my books, even if they're kind of assholes, as long as they are good archivists).

Archivists are currently doing a lot with very little support - like a lot of academics and librarians, really - because that's what people do. When they care about doing something, they get along, they scrape by, they suck it up. But they need buildings, they need climate control, they need continuing training and new people coming into the field - if the idea is that we have so many documents from the past extant today because archives DON'T need institutional-level support, then you are severely misinformed about how much of the past has survived to the present day. And if the idea is that we'll preserve the IMPORTANT bits of the past regardless then you're also sadly misinformed about how good we are at determining what's important, and how frequently (and with growing frequency) disasters of various kinds wipe places out (Lisbon 1755, for example), and how robust any of our documentation (often ESPECIALLY the 'important' stuff) is in terms of long-term survival.

There's a theory going around that THIS period - like the 2000s through today and into the future - will produce a 'dark age' for future historians because the digital infrastructure which not only underpins almost all of our day-to-day lives but is how we've decided to 'save space' - by preserving things digitally rather than in hard copy - is so unspeakably vulnerable and weak. Everyday folks have already, for the most part, lost access to things like CDs, which have a lifespan of something like 100 years at the most. Proprietary softwares, black box devices with irreplaceable parts, flimsy modern materials with difficult to preserve features mean a whole of information that drives our lives today will simply become inaccessible in, actually, a very short time.

Archives - vast storehouses under careful supervision full of well-organized stuff that might potentially be important one day - need institutional support, but also, on their own, are kind of... well, let's just say, Historians will also say shit like they 'uncovered' a 'hidden history' in a previously 'lost, unknown' document that some archivist put in a special box on a special shelf and carefully catalogued for prime findability. It's a symbiotic relationship that doesn't always get its due. An archive on its own can be very useful to a local community, an individual business, a specific family, all kinds of things - but to get History out of it, you need some Historians or suitably rabid individuals of other castes. You need both, or you end up with the pseudo-histories of nineteenth-century rich folk that then get to determine what we believe is possible for the future by what we are told of the past. It's a bad scene.

Again, there are further steps to take - not over here defending institutions as they stand. We were, at one point, on our way to accessible higher education, meaning everyone had a chance to go to pursue their interests, before we started seeing Universities not as a social good and social resource but as job training and profit centers and cut social funding as demanded by business ghouls. Higher education and academia as it functions now has done a lot of damage to people's lives.

But institutions are much harder to build than to change, and change is hard enough. Once an archive is defunded, its collections distributed or destroyed, you typically don't get it back. Like certain species of sea creatures with long gestational periods, once you destroy the mid-range of the population - the bit that raises up the next generation - your population collapses and its very hard to get things back on track (historians and other academics who require lots of investment and training and time and experience are like the sea creatures, you see).

You can, of course, start new. We've done that a lot, as a species. It's always possible. But it's a bit like running out of a fire empty-handed instead of grabbing your wallet as you go. Sometimes you just gotta go, and that's always safest - sometimes you just can't think or there's no time to think and you couldn't get to anything useful if you wanted to - but if it's matter of looking at the wallet in your pants pocket and dipping down to grab it (and maybe pants!) while you bolt then yeah, ought to try. Maybe the pants catch fire and you've got to abandon them anyway to save your life. That's reasonable. (This is just an analogy - fire safety generally says to get ye gone with your life and health intact ASAP, just for the record - don't stop for shit and don't go back in).

The point of this is that next time you're enjoying some popular history content (please save me from this word) or learn some cool fact about the past, think about the fact that none of that get down to you without a big chain of people all joined together doing different things. And that big chain needs nice big social supports to exist. The social supports are hard to change, but the chain is easy to lose without them. It's a group effort all the way, even that little fucker who didn't credit the work they used to make fun videos is important.

That content doesn't happen without the structure to support it - or even worse, that content lies to you. Makes stuff up. The stuff it makes up isn't going to be fantasies of freedom and equality, at least going by what's been made up before.

Hate the academy, want it to change, act to reform it - all very good, go for it, no desire to stop you (except maybe the hating part, try to hate more specifically, like individual actions or aspects of the academy, if you're going to hate on stuff, but, like, hate can be unhealthy, get some peace in your life if you can). Things are bad enough without also feeling like you have to take on a crusade to save archives or other institutions - though honestly just participating in your local history scene, giving them time and attention, is really valuable help - so that's not really the call to action here. The call is just asking you to notice the big structures that enable these small joys.

Don't let yourself be convinced that they somehow happen in a vacuum, that they'll just persist somehow like getting Deliveroo at your off-grid mountain cabin. A lot people helped make that stupid podcast about Marie Antoinette's toenail fungus happen - and there's way more than that waiting! If we can just keep letting people make archives, study stuff, fuck off on fruitless searches for things that were never there and instead find stuff we never KNEW was there. There's so much of that to be done! The more the merrier on who should be doing it! But if we want that, we got to figure out how to support it, to keep what we've got, build more of it, or it'll be the same shit about Marie Antoinette over and over and over and over and over because that'll all we'll have to build from.

Anyway, if you've never done it, take a ghost tour. Visit a museum nearby. Pop into an archive and just ask them some stuff. Get on these web pages that do things like recreate Angkor Wat as a virtual tour, go watch a Youtuber do a frothing-at-the-mouth defense of Charles Lightoller, or even better, read this reddit thread about whether Dua Lipa would have survived the Titanic sinking based on her music video. And just think - holy shit, isn't it cool that we have a society, a whole social structure, that could produce such a thing? And it's right here, at my fingertips, ready to disappear.

*there are reasons for this, some related to format and legibility/accessibility that still shouldn't eliminate the need to credit others' work and others cowardly excuses for parasitism

#senseless ramblings #stupid thoughts

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grifffins · 22 days ago

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🔮 The Fool’s Journey (Into Trouble)🔮

Lilia Calderu x fem!reader

tags: Older Woman/Younger Woman, Slow Burn, Alternative Universe, No Magic AU, Age Gap, Oblivious Lilia Calderu, Yearning, Fluff

summary: I was just looking for a job, not an existential crisis—or a crush on my eccentric, older boss who calls me ‘baby’ like it’s nothing. Now I’m working at her tarot shop, falling harder by the day, and she has no idea I’m flirting. Desperate, I turn to my chaotic friends for help. What could possibly go wrong?

wc: 3.5k (Chapter 1/?)

a/n: this is like the first time posting in forever and I’m kinda scared, but Lilia&aaa really got me writing again. I’m so gay. No magic, just chaotic friends. Also, I aged Billy up because I can’t write kids.

also on ao3

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………

I’d been looking for a job for what felt like forever. The kind of soul-sucking search that made me wonder if I was doomed to an eternity of scrolling through online postings, drowning in rejection emails, and contemplating whether selling my soul to a demon might be a viable career option. But then, one rainy afternoon, tucked away in the classified section of an old newspaper, an actual newspaper, for God’s sake I found it.

"Seeking shop assistant. Must be comfortable with the mystical and the eccentric. Call: 555-3827."

Did people even put ads in newspapers anymore? And who still had a landline in this century? Curiosity got the better of me, and before I knew it, I was dialing the number, half-expecting it to connect me to a dusty relic of a shop run by someone who spoke only in riddles.

Instead, a smooth, lightly accented voice answered. “Yes, hello?”

And that was the first time I heard Lilia Calderu.

The shop smelled like old books and incense, and the air had that thick, mystical quality that made you feel like you’d stepped into another world. The walls were lined with shelves stacked haphazardly with tarot decks, worn-out copies of books, and shelves of delicate crystal spheres that seemed to hum with some unseen energy.

And then I saw her .

Lilia Calderu stood behind the counter like she’d stepped right out of an old eccentric novel. Her dark curly hair, streaked with grey, was pinned up in a loose bun, with wild tendrils escaping to frame her sharp face. Those deep brown eyes, sharp as a blade, met mine with an amused glint. She had the air of someone who had seen it all and was quietly entertained by it.

“You must be y/n.” She smiled, and something in my chest tightened. “I must say, I wasn’t sure anyone read the paper anymore. Yet, here you are.”

I nodded, feeling far too awkward in her presence. “Yeah. Thought it was a joke at first, honestly.”

She laughed softly, an elegant sound that sent shivers down my spine. “Many people do, but this shop has its ways of finding the right people.” She extended her hand. “Welcome to your new obsession.”

And boy, was she right.

Lilia mostly handled the tarot readings, slipping into that almost trance-like focus as she read fortunes with an effortless grace that made me want to sit there and watch her forever. My job was…well, everything else. Cleaning, organising, taking inventory, manning the register when she was busy. The shop wasn’t exactly bustling, but it had its steady flow of customers mostly the kind who came in with wide eyes and a quiet reverence, seeking answers in the cards.

Lilia and I quickly fell into a rhythm. We’d talk about everything and nothing in between customers, and though she had a dry wit and a quiet confidence, there was a warmth to her that made me feel at ease.

Unfortunately, I also had an embarrassing, all-consuming crush on her.

And Lilia, bless her oblivious heart, did not pick up on my subtle flirting. At all.

I’d linger a little longer when we brushed past each other. I’d compliment her hair, her outfit, the way she shuffled cards like it was second nature. I even tried playful teasing, asking if she’d ever read my cards and tell me if I had a shot with someone older and devastatingly charming.

Nothing. Just a soft smile and a gentle, “Ah, love is such a mysterious thing, isn’t it?”

I should’ve given up.

But instead, I called in reinforcements.

Agatha, Jen, Billy, and Alice had been hearing about Lilia this and Lilia that for weeks. It had gotten so bad that the last time I brought her up over drinks, Agatha groaned and banged her forehead against the table. “y/n, I swear to all the gods, if you don’t make a move, I will.”

Jen sipped her wine, nodding. “I feel like I know this woman better than my own mother at this point.”

Billy leaned in, far too intrigued. “She’s hot, though, right?”

“Billy. ”

“What? I’m just asking.”

Alice, ever the voice of reason, gave me a sympathetic smile. “Alright, we need a plan. Operation ‘Get y/n Laid’ is a go.”

I choked on my drink, while Jen rolled her eyes. “Or, you know, date. ”

Agatha smirked. “I vote chaos.”

And so, it began.

The plan was simple.

Step one: The coven (as my friends liked to call themselves, despite having zero magical abilities) would ‘accidentally’ drop by the shop to scope out Lilia. Subtlety was not their strong suit, but I’d given them a strict list of rules— no embarrassing me, no obvious flirting on my behalf, and under no circumstances could Agatha challenge her to a tarot reading battle.

Step two: Once they confirmed Lilia was, in fact, into women (something I was still trying to figure out without outright asking), they’d casually encourage me to ask her out.

Step three: Success. Or mortifying failure.

I should’ve known better.

The day of the plan, they arrived with the grace of a train wreck. The bell above the shop door chimed, and in they strolled. Agatha with her signature overconfidence, Jen trying to look composed, and Billy and Alice whispering conspiratorially behind them.

Lilia, who had been arranging a set of tarot decks, looked up with mild interest. “New customers?” she mused.

I winced. “Uh, yeah. Friends.”

Agatha stepped forward, extending a hand with a grin that was far too wolfish for my liking. “Agatha. Nice shop you have here.”

Lilia took her hand with that calm, effortless grace. “Thank you. I do my best.” She glanced over at me with a raised brow. “I see y/n has been spreading the word.”

Alice beamed. “Oh, you have no idea.”

Kill me.

Lilia was polite but wary, and I could tell she picked up on something , whether it was the fact that they were clearly vetting her or just the general chaos my friends brought with them. But she handled it like she handled everything else: with quiet amusement and a touch of suspicion.

I could also see the way she lingered on me when she thought I wasn’t looking, the way she’d glance over when Agatha not-so-subtly hinted at my interest in “older, experienced women.”

And when Billy, in all his chaotic energy, ‘accidentally’ knocked over a shelf, Lilia just sighed and gave me a look that said, this is your problem now.

God, I was so gone for her.

I didn’t know if the plan was working, but when I caught Lilia watching me across the shop, her expression softer, more contemplative than usual, I had a feeling things were shifting.

I just had to make sure I didn’t screw it up.

The coven’s “casual” visit stretched far longer than I’d anticipated, and Lilia, ever the picture of grace and patience entertained their probing questions with a wry amusement that had me both sweating and swooning.

“So,” Agatha drawled, leaning casually on the counter, “how long have you been in town? A woman like you must have quite the stories.”

Lilia smiled knowingly, her dark eyes glinting. “Oh, I’ve been here longer than most would guess. The shop’s been in my family for generations, though I suppose I’ve... modernised it in my own way.”

Jen, ever the detective, sipped her overpriced coffee and murmured, “Modernised? You still have a landline.”

Lilia shot her a look that could cut glass. “It has a certain charm.”

I stifled a laugh behind my hand.

Billy, who’d been poking around the shelves, suddenly perked up. “So, Lilia, do you do, like, love spells?”

I nearly choked on air.

Lilia tilted her head, tapping a perfectly manicured finger on the counter. “Love spells are tricky,” she mused, her voice low and velvety. “You can’t make someone fall in love, you know. Only... reveal what’s already there.”

My face burned so hot I thought I might spontaneously combust. Agatha shot me a smug grin, and I swore I’d kill her later.

Lilia, however, seemed unbothered. If anything, she was watching me with a knowing glint, as if she’d caught the edge of something in my expression.

“Love is a delicate thing,” she continued, her gaze still on me. “It’s best handled with care.”

Jen snorted. “Tell that to y/n.”

I groaned. “Alright, you guys have had your fun. Let’s not traumatise my boss any further.”

Lilia’s lips quirked up. “Oh, y/n, it takes much more than this to rattle me.”

And with that, my brain short-circuited.

Once I’d finally wrangled my friends out the door—after no less than three separate goodbyes and a thinly veiled attempt by Agatha to invite Lilia to a “casual” group outing—I collapsed against the counter with a groan.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled into my hands. “They’re... a lot.”

Lilia chuckled softly, arranging a set of tarot cards in a neat pile. “They’re delightful.” She paused, her voice quieter. “They care about you.”

I peeked up at her through my fingers. “They do. Sometimes too much.”

She gave me that soft, unreadable smile that made my stomach twist in knots. “That’s never a bad thing.”

There was a moment of silence, comfortable yet charged. I watched her work, her fingers deft and graceful, and I couldn’t help but imagine what they’d feel like trailing over my skin.

Which, of course, led to me blurting out the world’s most humiliating sentence.

“So, uh... are you single?”

Lilia’s hands stilled. She looked up at me, one perfectly arched brow lifting.

Oh. Oh no.

I swallowed thickly. “I—I mean, just curious. You know, for... um... business reasons?”

She stared at me for a long beat before a slow, knowing smile spread across her face. “Business reasons?”

I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. “I’ll shut up now.”

To my absolute horror, she looked amused . “No, I don’t mind the question,” she said, voice smooth and far too indulgent. “Yes, y/n, I am single.”

My brain froze. “Oh. Cool.”

I was going to die. Right here. In this shop.

Lilia leaned on the counter, eyes twinkling with mischief. “And you?”

Me? Functioning? Unlikely.

“Uh, yeah,” I stammered. “Very single. Like... aggressively single.”

She laughed, a low, rich sound that made my knees weak. “Aggressively?”

I groaned. “I have a lot of free time.”

She gave me a long, thoughtful look, and for the first time, I saw something flicker in her expression, curiosity? Interest? God, I hoped so.

“Well,” she said finally, “perhaps we should do something about that.”

I blinked. “Do something?”

Lilia just smiled. “You’ll see, baby.”

I was definitely going to die.

I called Agatha that night in full-blown panic.

“She called me baby, Agatha. She called me baby. ”

On the other end of the line, Agatha groaned. “And you didn’t throw yourself at her feet?”

“I panicked!” I hissed. “I just stood there like an idiot and nodded!”

Jen’s voice chimed in. “Classic y/n.”

Billy snorted. “You need to make a move before someone else does.”

Alice, ever the gentle voice of reason, hummed. “Maybe she’s interested in you, y/n. She wouldn’t call you ‘baby’ if she wasn’t, right?”

“I don’t know,” I whined. “She’s so cool, and she’s older, and I feel like a dumb kid around her.”

Agatha clicked her tongue. “You’re not a dumb kid. You’re a hot, chaotic disaster, and that’s charming. Now, listen, next time you see her, flirt intentionally. Make it obvious.”

“Oh yeah, because that’s gone so well before.”

“No more subtlety,” Agatha said firmly. “You need to show her you’re serious. Flirt, y/n. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“She could laugh in my face?”

“She won’t,” Alice assured me. “She hired you, didn’t she? That means she likes you.”

I sighed, flopping onto my bed.

The next morning, I walked into the shop, determined. Lilia glanced up from where she was rearranging the display, her smile soft.

"Good morning, y/n."

I swallowed hard, shoving down the nervous energy bubbling in my chest. "Morning, Lilia."

She tilted her head, observing me for a moment. "You look... focused today. A special occasion?"

"Oh, uh... just trying to be more productive," I said quickly, forcing a smile and internally cursing myself. I had one job: flirt. Be charming. Sweep her off her feet. Instead, I was standing there like a starstruck teenager.

Lilia gave me an amused glance, completely unaware of the internal screaming happening inside my head. "Well, productivity is always admirable," she said, turning back to her tarot deck. "Let me know if you need something to do, baby."

Baby. There it was again.

I nearly tripped over my own feet on the way to the back room.

Later that evening, I flopped onto Agatha's couch with a dramatic groan. "It's hopeless."

Billy, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a bowl of popcorn, rolled his eyes. "You're hopeless. There's a difference."

Alice patted my knee reassuringly. "Tell us what happened this time."

I sat up, rubbing my hands over my face. "She called me baby again."

Jen raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"And?" I repeated incredulously. "I blacked out! Just stood there like a moron and stammered something about productivity!"

Agatha groaned, sipping her wine. "You are acting like the least seductive person I have ever met, and I have literally watched you seduce people before. What happened to that y/n?"

I threw my hands in the air. "That y/n wasn't crushing on someone three times my age who also happens to be the most sophisticated, intimidating woman I've ever met!"

Billy snickered. "You're acting like she's some kind of ancient vampire."

I glared. "She might be, okay? I don't know her life."

Jen smirked. "You could get to know it. Y'know, if you asked her out."

"That's not how this works!" I groaned, leaning back against the couch. "I need subtlety. "

Agatha rolled her eyes so hard I was worried they'd get stuck. "y/n. Sweetheart. You've been subtle for weeks, and she hasn't picked up on a damn thing."

"She has to know," I insisted. "She’s too smart not to have figured it out."

Alice smiled kindly. "Or maybe she’s just... not looking for it? You said she’s wary of the age gap, right?"

I sighed. "Yeah. I get the feeling she’s aware of it, but she doesn’t say anything. It’s just little things, like, if I compliment her, she brushes it off like I’m just being nice. She never takes it seriously."

Jen hummed thoughtfully. "Sounds like she's putting up a little barrier. Maybe she's worried it's inappropriate?"

Agatha smirked. "So we need to show her it's very appropriate."

Billy nodded eagerly. "Okay, Get y/n Laid 101 is officially back in session."

"Can we call it something else?" I muttered.

"No," Agatha said flatly. "This is what we're calling it." She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. "Here's the new plan. We need to escalate. No more lingering looks and awkward compliments. We go big. We're talking bold flirting, unmistakable signals. She won't be able to ignore it."

I groaned. "Agatha, I don't do bold. I trip over air when she looks at me for too long."

Jen smirked. "Then it's time to fake it till you make it."

Billy grinned. "You know what would help? A little jealousy."

I groaned again. "No."

"Yes," Agatha said, pointing at Billy. "Yes. We make her jealous."

"Guys, this isn't a teen drama," I whined. "What am I supposed to do? Flirt with some random customer in front of her?"

Agatha snapped her fingers. "Exactly!"

Alice frowned. "That seems a little childish."

Jen shrugged. "It could work."

I buried my face in my hands. "You’re all terrible."

Billy patted my arm. "We're terrible, but we're effective."

The next day at the shop, I was feeling good. Confident, even. The plan was simple, escalate my flirting game, but not with Lilia just yet. No, I needed to show her what she was missing. And I was good at flirting. Really good. Just… not with her. Lilia was an enigma, a walking temptation wrapped in decades of experience and elegance, and I turned into an absolute idiot in her presence.

But with other women? That was easy.

The bell above the door chimed, and I looked up to see a gorgeous customer stepping in, tall, blonde, and effortlessly stylish. She glanced around the shop with interest, her gaze landing on me, and I caught the faintest flicker of a smile. I could work with that.

I straightened my posture, strolling over with a relaxed smile. “Welcome in,” I said smoothly, letting my voice drop just enough to be inviting. “Looking for anything in particular? Or just... browsing?”

She smiled, intrigued. “A little of both, I think.”

“Oh, mystery.” I leaned lightly on the counter, letting my fingers trace the edge of a crystal display. “I like that. Means you might need a guide.”

She laughed softly, tilting her head in a way that told me she was enjoying this. “And I suppose you’re volunteering?”

I grinned. “I’m more than qualified.”

We slipped into an easy banter, her eyes bright with interest as I smoothly navigated between flirtation and shop talk. She leaned in a little closer, and I let my gaze linger, deliberate and playful.

And then I felt it.

That unmistakable presence.

I glanced up and yep. Lilia was watching from across the room, her dark eyes focused, her expression unreadable. She was leaning against the shelf, book in hand, but I could tell she hadn’t turned a page in a while.

I ignored the way my pulse jumped and turned my attention back to the blonde, offering her a charming smile. “So,” I said, handing her a small charm, “this one’s for luck. Not that you look like you need it.”

She laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re good at this.”

“I try.”

Lilia’s voice cut through the moment like a blade, smooth, unhurried, but somehow commanding all the same. “y/n.”

I turned, heart skipping a beat. “Yeah?”

She strolled over, eyes flicking between me and the blonde. “Everything alright here?”

The blonde woman, oblivious, smiled. “Just getting some expert advice.”

Lilia hummed, arching a brow at me. “I see.” There was nothing in her tone that hinted at jealousy, but something lingered beneath it, something sharp and assessing. “Why don’t you help me with something in the back when you’re done?”

It wasn’t a request.

I swallowed. “Sure, just a sec.”

The blonde handed me the charm with a wink. “I think I’ll take this. Lucky, right?”

I rang her up, feeling Lilia’s presence like a shadow at my back the entire time. When the customer finally left with a lingering glance over her shoulder, I turned to Lilia with what I hoped was a nonchalant smile. “What’s up?”

She studied me for a moment, then gestured toward the back room. “Come on.”

I followed her, nerves prickling under my skin. Was she... mad? Intrigued? God, I couldn’t tell. She closed the door behind us and crossed her arms, regarding me with that maddeningly unreadable expression.

“Flirting with customers now?” she asked, tone light but with an edge I couldn’t quite place.

I shrugged, leaning against the wall. “It’s good for business.”

Lilia’s lips twitched, but she didn’t quite smile. “Mm. I suppose it is.”

Silence stretched between us, heavy with something unsaid. She tilted her head, studying me like she was piecing together a puzzle. And then, just as quickly as she’d pulled me aside, she turned back toward the shelf, and pointed at the boxes to unpack, business as usual. “Well,” she said, voice as smooth as ever, “let’s try to keep things professional, baby.”

And there it was again. Baby. The way she said it effortless, affectionate, and utterly devastating.

I cleared my throat. “Got it. Professional.”

But as I left the back room, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Lilia wasn’t quite as unaffected as she seemed.

That night, I sat at Agatha’s with my head in my hands. “She pulled me into the back room.”

Jen perked up. “Wait, what? ”

Billy nearly dropped his drink. “Define ‘pulled into the back room.’”

“Not like that,” I groaned. “She just... I don’t know, it felt like she was calling me out for flirting, but it wasn’t clear if she was mad or—”

“Jealous,” Agatha supplied smugly. “She was jealous. ”

Alice, ever the voice of reason, frowned. “Or she thought you were being unprofessional.”

Agatha waved a hand. “Unprofessional, please. y/n’s been working there for weeks with no complaints. She definitely noticed.”

Billy grinned. “What did she say exactly?”

I sighed. “She told me to keep things professional. Baby. ”

Jen’s eyes widened. “She called you baby again? ”

I nodded miserably. “I’m losing my mind.”

Agatha leaned in with a smirk. “Then we escalate. She’s watching now.”

I groaned, burying my face in a pillow. “Why is this so hard?”

“Because you actually like her,” Alice said gently. “And that makes everything ten times scarier.”

I peeked out from the pillow. “So what do I do?”

Agatha smirked. “You keep flirting, y/n. But this time, aim it at the right woman.”

#lilia calderu x reader #lilia calderu #patti lupone #agatha all along #agatha all along fanfic #my fanfic

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lesmana-enterprise-ltd · 2 months ago

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WIP | Winsbury Manor, an Ambitious Project of a Tudor Home in Ravenwood (NO CC)

A Historical Residence

Nestled in the hauntingly serene Whispering Glen of Ravenwood, Winsbury Manor stands as a striking relic of a turbulent past. Built in the late 15th century, this Tudor-style estate became the seat of Kingdom of Henford rule over the Kingdom of Ravenwood from 1490 to 1532. Once a symbol of dominance, the manor witnessed grand coronations, fierce battles, and the eventual fall of Henford’s reign to Ravenwood’s relentless resistance.

Our Dedication to Restoration

Since acquiring Winsbury Manor from the esteemed Ravenshade family in 2020, Lesmana Enterprise Co., Ltd. has been steadfast in its dedication to the manor’s meticulous restoration.

Once a crumbling relic of Ravenwood’s storied past, the manor has been carefully preserved and revitalized, blending modern techniques with respect for its rich architectural and historical heritage. Every stone, timber, and mural has been thoughtfully restored to honor the manor's legacy as a seat of power and cultural significance. Now, after years of tireless work, Winsbury Manor is poised to begin a new chapter.

Lesmana Enterprise is proud to announce the manor’s upcoming auction, offering this remarkable piece of history to those who share a passion for preserving the grandeur of Ravenwood’s noble legacy.

Offering to Public Soon

Prepare to be immersed in history as Winsbury Manor, a true masterpiece of heritage restoration, goes to auction. This is your exclusive opportunity to own a landmark that blends timeless grandeur with unparalleled historical significance. Get ready to bid and secure your place in the legacy of Ravenwood’s finest estate.

Secure your spot in our auction for §50,000 and sign up for our upcoming auction via www.LesmanaEnterprise.co.sm/Auction/register.

Special rates are available for Lothario Trust Bank and Landgraab Standard Bank priority status holders.

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myster-roca · 4 months ago

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La Pelle del Diavolo: A Halloween Special

The night air in the hills of Tuscany was thick with the scent of earth and wild herbs, but a chill crept through the wind, slipping from the shadows cast by ancient oaks around the estate. Marco Romano, a seasoned thief, felt the familiar prickle of excitement as he approached the villa.

Dark whispers and superstitions tugged at the edges of his thoughts, but he pushed them aside. Danger was an old friend, and tonight, it had led him to the mysterious Villa Tenebra.

The locals had spoken of the villa’s hidden treasure in hushed tones over dark wine, only daring to mention it in shadowed corners of Florence’s oldest bars. It was a relic of myth, known as the Corpus Noctem, the key to immortal life. Marco had dismissed it as folklore at first, but the lure of such power was impossible to resist.

He had slipped into Villa Tenebra with the help of a map from a cryptic dealer in Florence—a strange man eager to be rid of it. The map was faded and worn, but it revealed something extraordinary: an old smugglers’ passage hidden in the villa’s foundations, built centuries ago to let noblemen move treasures in and out undetected.

The entrance to the passage lay hidden behind a statue in the villa’s overgrown gardens, its base concealing a narrow stone door. With a grunt, Marco pushed it open, revealing a winding staircase descending into the earth. The air was cool and damp, and each step echoed, punctuating the silence with a heavy, ominous beat.

At the bottom, the passage twisted into a dimly lit stone hallway. Shadows flickered on the walls, worn smooth by years of forgotten footsteps. Marco moved forward, his senses sharp, adrenaline building. The air was thick, carrying an old, metallic scent, as though it held memories of things long past.

A few meters down, he found himself in a corridor and saw something he had never encountered—a perfectly sculpted muscle suit that looked like leather, coated in wax, and painted red. The closer he got, the more he felt an odd pull, a magnetic force that made his skin tingle and his pulse intensify.

The suit looked like leather but felt too smooth, too alive. It beckoned to him.

“This is it. The Corpus Noctem. The Flesh of the Night,” he whispered, his voice thick with greed. “The key to youth and eternal life.”

His fingers hovered over the material, and as soon as he touched it, a rush of heat surged through him, like electricity flooding his veins. His fingertips tingled as he traced its sculpted lines. The sensation was intoxicating, almost erotic. His breath quickened, and an unfamiliar hunger stirred deep within him.

With the suit clutched in his arms, he moved quickly down the hall, rounding a corner, his breathing quickening as he felt its warmth intensify. The heat from the suit seemed to throb, mirroring his own pulse, sending waves of anticipation rippling through him.

He knew he couldn’t wait any longer—he needed it on his body, needed to feel it enveloping him.

Setting the suit down, he hurriedly removed his clothes, pulling off his sleek, dark outfit and kicking off his boots. His legs trembled as he reached for the red muscle suit once more, pressing himself against it and feeling heat spread through his body.

He removed his pants, standing completely naked before the suit, savoring the rich red sheen of the leather.

Without hesitation, he began to put it on. The moment it touched his skin, a wave of pleasure and power flooded his senses.

As he slid the suit further up his leg, he felt an incredible tightness around his calf, a strange, thrilling tension as though the suit were pulling at his muscles. And then, to his astonishment, he felt his calf muscle expand, swelling against the material as though infused with newfound strength.

He continued, slipping his other leg in, feeling the suit tighten around his thighs. The same sensation of growth surged through him, his quads and hamstrings expanding, hardening, becoming thicker, stronger.

Marco’s hands trembled as he pulled the suit up over his hips, feeling the snug embrace of the material. He slipped his arms into the sleeves, and as the suit enveloped his torso, a wave of heat exploded through his chest and back.

He watched in awe as his pecs rose, filling out, becoming solid and powerful, each muscle now perfectly defined. His shoulders broadened, the suit tightening around them, forcing them to grow, to harden, until they were as strong as stone.

His arousal surged as he ran his hands down to the calves and then up to the chest, pressing his palm against the sculpted abdomen. It felt perfect—hard, tight, like a muscular man was inside.

Eyes closed, he traced his hands over the biceps and around to the triceps, savoring every sensation.

“You shouldn’t have touched that.”

The thief spun around. An old man stood in the hallway, his silver hair gleaming in the dim light. On his right hand, a tarnished silver ring caught the faint glow, intricate symbols etched into its surface.

His eyes, sharp and full of something the thief couldn’t quite place, bore into him. The air between them crackled with tension.

“This is your treasure, old man?” the thief sneered, masking the tremor in his voice.

The old man stepped forward, his lips curling into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Treasure? No… it’s a curse. You should strip it off and leave while you still can. That suit… The Corpus Noctem… was never meant to be worn by anyone who values their soul.”

The thief chuckled darkly, reveling in the waves of pleasure and power coursing through him as the suit clung tighter, molding to his body like a second skin. “You’re just trying to scare me. It’s mine now.”

But then, something shifted. The warmth he’d felt before began to change, becoming suffocating, as though the suit itself was tightening around him, digging deeper into his flesh.

The initial rush of pleasure twisted into something unbearable, a heat that clawed at him from within.

His chest heaved as panic seized him. “What… what is happening?”

The old man’s gaze was steely, his voice soft yet filled with grim satisfaction. “You wanted to own the suit, to wield its power. But now, it owns you.”

The thief’s hands flew to the suit, trying to rip it off, but the material wouldn’t budge. Panic clawed at him as he realized the truth—this wasn’t just a myth or legend. This was real, and he had fallen for its trap.

“The suit was crafted centuries ago,” the old man continued, his voice soft yet laden with dark knowledge. “A coven of sorcerers, desperate for immortality, summoned an ancient demon—the Harrower of Flesh—who bound its essence into the hollow skin of a man, creating the Corpus Noctem. Whoever wore it would gain eternal youth and beauty, but at a cost: for each year they lived, they’d need to drain another’s essence, leaving behind a lifeless skinsuit. To bypass this, the wearer must cloak themselves in the flesh of another soul—only by donning this skin over the Corpus Noctem can one remain whole.”

The thief’s vision blurred as the suit constricted around him, merging deeper into his skin. His body tingled with a sensation that was equal parts pleasure and terror. It felt as if the suit were feeding on him, consuming his very essence.

The old man’s frail form shifted, and with deliberate slowness, he raised his hands to his face. He pulled it off, revealing a lifelike mask, and beneath it, a strikingly youthful, handsome face emerged—features sharp, jawline strong, eyes dark and piercing. Smirking, he removed his clothes piece by piece, casting off the disguise of age.

As the last layer fell, the old, fragile illusion was gone, replaced by a chiseled, muscular figure that looked as if it had been carved from marble. His back straightened, shoulders broad, and every inch of him radiated a powerful, youthful energy.

“You see, I was once like you,” the man said, his voice now rich and powerful. “I, too, was lured by the suit’s promises. But unlike you, I learned its secrets and made it my own. I’ve lived for centuries, wearing this skin, draining life from those foolish enough to fall into its grasp.”

The thief stumbled back, his body no longer his own. The suit tightened again, and he felt his skin loosen, as if separating from his bones, becoming pliable and empty. He was now little more than an outer shell waiting to be filled.

“You’ll be perfect,” the man murmured with a predatory smile. “I’ve been needing a new face. And your body… it will serve me well.”

The man reached down, his fingers trailing over the thief’s hollowed form, savoring the warmth and fresh pliability. He lifted the emptied skin carefully, feeling its readiness to be inhabited. Pausing, he slid a tarnished silver ring from his finger and set it gently on the floor beside him, a faint smile crossing his lips, as if the gesture held private, ritualistic meaning.

With a sigh of satisfaction, he began donning the suit, the thief’s former identity slipping over him like a glove. The skin conformed to him, tightening and sealing with a sensation that sent shivers through him—a seductive merging of flesh and power.

He ran his hands over his new form, relishing the strength beneath his fingers. This body was everything he’d hoped for—youthful, strong, and ready to endure another century. He reached down, rubbing his hands over Marco's abs, feeling the muscles tense beneath his touch. His hands drifted lower, gripping Marco's cock, heat radiating from it. Wrapping his hand around the shaft, he began to stroke.

“Do you like it?” he asked himself with a smile.

He began to laugh as he continued stroking, feeling Marco grow harder. On the verge of climax, he still sensed remnants of Marco's essence, and his smile grew even wider. Reaching up, he massaged his new face.

But he wasn’t done. He turned to the Corpus Noctem, lying on the floor like a crimson shadow. With practiced ease, he slipped it on, layer by layer, feeling it fuse with his stolen body, amplifying his strength, fortifying every fiber. The suit melded seamlessly, completing his transformation.

Reaching down, he retrieved the silver ring from the floor and slid it back onto his finger, a final touch that signified the bond. He looked into the grand mirror, admiring the flawless reflection. Turning sharply, he traced a hand along his new jawline, savoring the unfamiliar yet perfectly familiar contours. The face of a man he had consumed, a youth he had stolen, now belonged to him entirely.

With a slow exhale, he ran his hands over his abs, savoring each hard, sculpted ridge beneath his fingertips. The suit hugged every contour perfectly, every muscle honed, every line exact.

“Magnificent,” he whispered, his voice low with satisfaction, echoing through the empty hall like a dark promise. Only his faint laughter remained, drifting through Villa Tenebra’s silent halls, waiting for the next soul to fall prey to the Corpus Noctem.

--- ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ---

Would you like to expand this dark universe? Follow me to explore more content and updates: https://linktr.ee/mysteroca

#male bodysuit #male body transformation #male body suit #male skinsuit #male body swap #male bodyswap #male transformation #male shapeshift #male disguise #male impersonation

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normatural · 8 months ago

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Echoes of Souls | A.T

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

Summary: In the old, abandoned castle, she found a love letter addressed to her, written by someone who died a century ago.

Word Count: 1.121

A/N: Feedback is always welcome. English isn't my first language so excuse any mistakes but feel free to point them out to help me improve.

Chapter 1: Echoes of a Forgotten Past

The old castle stood quiet and forgotten on the outskirts of King’s Landing, its once-glorious exterior now a ghostly relic of the past. Long vines of ivy climbed its weathered walls, making it appear almost as if nature had attempted to reclaim the abandoned structure. Shutters banged against cracked windows, held only by rusty, old hinges, while the wind whistled mournfully through the broken panes. Even the birds seemed to shun the place, their songs the only absence in an otherwise haunted landscape.

It was this eerie, magnetic pull that had drawn you here—a sense of familiarity combined with an insatiable curiosity for between all the projects the company allowed you to choose, this was the one that stood out for you. As you walked through the creaky front doors into the sprawling foyer, you were struck by the imposing architecture, which still held a sliver of its former grandeur. Your footsteps echoed softly against the hardwood floor as you moved through the house, your fingers lightly grazing the banister of the grand staircase.

A sense of déjà vu washed over you. You paused, trying to pinpoint the origin of this haunting familiarity. Why did every corridor, every room, seem like it held a secret, a memory just out of reach? It was as if you had been here before in another life, another time. But that was impossible—or was it?

As night fell, the castle’s eerie charm only deepened. You made your way back to the trailer with the delivery you had ordered. The moonlight casts silver shadows through the window. Exhaustion soon claimed you after dinner, and you drifted into a deep, dream-filled sleep.

In your dream, the world was different—brighter, more vibrant. Standing on the verdant grounds of the palace, it was no longer an abandoned relic. It was alive, bustling with people, laughter, and the roar of dragons. The skies above were filled with the majestic creatures, their wings casting shadows on the cobblestone pathways below.

You looked down at yourself, your attire reflecting a time long past. Rich fabrics and intricate embroidery adorned your gown, and your hair seemed to be styled in the fashion of nobility. Heart swelled with emotions you couldn’t explain as you walked through the manicured gardens of the castle, the very same one that looked like a dried jungle just moments ago. Everything feels uncannily familiar.

Suddenly, you felt a pang in your heart. A strange vibration in your chest. And then saw him. Your breath caught as you took in the sight of him. His tall, statuesque form was cloaked in regal hues, the fabric of his attire moving subtly with each of his graceful movements. He reached out to touch a blossom, his long fingers brushing the petals with unexpected tenderness, and in that moment, you felt as though she was witnessing a secret part of his soul.

His face, chiseled and strong, held a serene intensity. The angles of his jaw and the line of his nose were softened by the play of light and shadow, creating a portrait that was both striking and ethereal. But it was his eyes that truly made you hold your breath. Piercing violet, it seemed to see right through the world and into the very essence of things. When his gaze shifted and met yours, you felt an electric thrill course through your veins, as if his eyes held the power to unravel your very being.

Slowly, a rare, faint smile touched his lips, transforming his face with a warmth that contrasted beautifully with his otherwise austere demeanor. The sight of that smile, so fleeting yet so profound, made your heart ache with an inexplicable longing.

Something inside you is alarming that the man standing a few meters from you is the very same from the letter whose words haven’t left your mind. Aemond Targaryen.

His silver hair glinted in the sunlight, and his piercing violet eye, filled with a depth of emotion you instantly recognized, locked onto you. He approached with a look of tender resolve, his footsteps confident and deliberate.

“Vaela,” he called you, a name from your past life that felt both foreign and intimate. Familiar. “I was waiting for you. Walk with me.”

You nodded, heart fluttering with a mixture of excitement and calm, and took his offered arm. Something inside you told you to stop staring but how could you avert your eyes from his figure when it was making your heart beat so fast? You strolled through the garden, the scent of blooming roses enveloping you, the sound of dragon wings beating in sync with your heartbeat.

“I have something important to ask you,” Aemond began, his voice steady yet soft. He led you to a secluded alcove where the garden’s flowers seemed to bloom more brightly. He turned to face you, taking both your hands in his. “I have loved you from the moment we met. In you, I found my heart’s true desire, a soul that mirrors my own. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Tears welled up in your eyes, the emotions flooding through you from both the past and present. Why was your heart-warming so abruptly at his words? Why did they sound so familiar? How the answer seemed to wish to jump out of your lips so quickly. Aemond was strange after all. Perhaps something is created just in your mind. But it couldn’t be, could it?

“Yes, Aemond,” you whispered, your voice trembling with joy. “I will.”

His smile, rare and sincere, was a sight that imprinted itself deeply into your memory. Wishing you could see it again. He lifted one of your hands to his lips, your knuckles being touched so softly and yet intimately by them as his violet eye seemed to stare deep into yours.

You awoke with a start, the remnants of the dream lingering in your mind like the last notes of a haunting melody. You could still smell the scent of the flowers. Feel the touch of his lips on your skin. You realized in that moment that your journey here was no accident. The castle, the dreams, Aemond—they were pieces of a puzzle you were destined to uncover. Meant to find.

Clutching the blanket tighter around you, you knew the first light of day would bring with it a new resolve. You would unravel the past, discover the hidden secrets of this place, and understand why destiny had led you here. There ought to be answers somewhere in those walls. It was not just an abandoned relic; it was a bridge to your past, a testament to a love that had defied time itself.

taglist: @donut-seam @strangersunghoon @teasweeter @darktrashsoulbear

#aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen oneshot

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rafecamerons-national-anthem · 2 months ago

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THE HIDDEN ONE-PAUL ATREIDES

𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪 Paul Atreides discovers Y/N, a mysterious woman caught between humanity and machines, created as a weapon by his family. As they grow closer, their bond challenges destiny. 𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨

The desert winds howled across the surface of Arrakis, carrying the endless whispers of fate and prophecy. The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the still, vast expanse of sand. A new chapter in the Atreides lore was about to begin, one that had been written long before Paul Atreides was born. And though his mind had been consumed by visions of a future yet to be realized, there was one vision he could not shake. Her.

Y/N. The hidden one, a name he had never heard but whose presence seemed to loom over him in every moment of clarity. Her image, striking, enigmatic, with eyes that shimmered an unnatural blue, had appeared to him in fleeting moments, in the liminal space between sleep and wakefulness. He had seen her in the most unexpected places: in the stillness of the desert, in the heart of the Emperor's court, in the shadow of a battle not yet fought.

The visions had become so vivid that they haunted him, each one more real than the last. It was as if she were calling out to him, from a time long past, from a place hidden beneath the sands.

𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨

The day Paul Atreides found the secret room was an accident. He had wandered the halls of the grand Atreides stronghold, as he often did when lost in thought. His steps echoed off the cold stone walls, and the flickering lights from the chandeliers cast their soft glow across the polished floors. It was in this quiet solitude that he stumbled upon the door. It was hidden behind a tapestry, an old relic that seemed out of place, yet remarkably well preserved.

He pulled aside the fabric, revealing a narrow passage. The air was thick with dust, as if the door had not been opened in centuries. Without thinking, Paul stepped inside.

The room beyond was a stark contrast to the rest of the castle. It was smaller, and its walls were lined with shelves filled with ancient texts, cryptic diagrams, and machinery that seemed impossibly advanced for the time. But there, in the center of the room, was something that caught his attention.

A pod. It was sleek, metallic, and humming with an energy that felt...familiar. As Paul approached, his breath caught in his throat. Inside the pod was a woman, beautiful, serene, yet impossibly still. Her skin was pale, almost ethereal, and her eyes, those blue eyes, were closed, as if she were merely sleeping.

The moment Paul’s fingers grazed the surface of the pod, her eyes snapped open. She stared at him with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine.

“You...” she whispered, her voice a blend of wonder and recognition.

“Who are you?” Paul managed to ask, his heart pounding in his chest. He had known, somehow, that this was the woman from his visions.

“I am Y/N,” she said softly, her gaze never leaving his. “And you…you are Paul Atreides, the one who will lead us into the future.”

Paul’s mind raced. How did she know him? How had she been hidden away for so long? He had so many questions, but the answers seemed to elude him.

𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨

Unbeknownst to Paul, his father, Duke Leto, had known of Y/N’s existence for many years. In fact, it had been the Duke who knew about this generational secret that his family holds, far from the prying eyes of the galaxy and the political machinations of the Imperium. The truth was that Y/N was more than just a person. She was a being caught between humanity and the machines of the past. A living testament to the forbidden thinking machines, who had been altered and preserved as a weapon, a safeguard for the Atreides legacy.

Paul’s discovery of Y/N did not come without consequence. His visions had led him to her, but the Bene Gesserit, who had their own plans for Paul’s destiny, had long known about Y/N as well. They understood her significance; she was the key to breeding the Chosen One, the one who could wield the powers of the Kwisatz Haderach. But what the Bene Gesserit did not anticipate was the bond between Paul and Y/N, one that ran deeper than any political or genetic manipulation.

𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨

“You’re...not just a woman,” Paul said, his voice breaking the silence between them. “You’re something else. Something...ancient.”

Y/N smiled faintly, her robotic blue eyes glinting with a knowing sadness. “I was meant to be a weapon, Paul. A part of a forgotten war. But I am human too, just like you. I’ve been waiting for you, for this moment. I knew you would come.”

Paul stepped closer, a mix of curiosity and awe tugging at his chest. “Why? Why wait all this time? What’s your purpose?”

Y/N's smile deepened, and she reached out, her hand hovering near his. “I am here to help you. To guide you. To stand by you. Together, we can change the course of history.”

A heavy silence fell between them, thick with the weight of their shared destiny. Paul reached out slowly, his hand brushing against hers. The contact sent a shock of warmth through him, a connection he couldn’t explain. And in that moment, all the confusion, the fear, the uncertainty seemed to melt away.

“I don’t know how,” Paul whispered, his eyes searching hers, “but I think I’ve been waiting for you too.”

Y/N’s gaze softened. “Then let’s face the future together.”

They stood there, their hands intertwined, as the weight of their fates settled upon them.

𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨

The Bene Gesserit, led by the determined and calculating Lady Jessica, were not pleased when they learned of Y/N’s existence. For years, they had sought to control the bloodlines, to ensure that the Kwisatz Haderach would be born according to their plan. But Y/N was a variable they had not accounted for a wild card in the grand scheme of things.

Jessica, ever the loyal servant to her Order, confronted Paul in the halls of the Atreides stronghold.

“You have to understand,” Jessica implored, her voice tense. “The Bene Gesserit have spent decades grooming you, Paul. You are the one they’ve chosen, the one they’ve trained. And yet, this...this machine is not part of the plan. She is a threat.”

“I don’t care about the plan anymore,” Paul said fiercely, his eyes blazing with a resolve that surprised even him. “I know who I am. I know what I’m meant to do. And Y/N...she’s a part of it.”

Jessica’s eyes narrowed, a hint of fear flashing in her gaze. “You don’t understand, Paul. The Bene Gesserit will stop at nothing to see their vision realized. If you side with her, you’ll bring war to us all.”

Paul’s heart wavered for only a moment. But when he thought of Y/N, of the way she had looked at him, the way they had connected, he knew he could not turn away. He would not.

“I’ve made my choice, Mother,” Paul said, his voice firm. “And I will not be swayed.”

𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨

As the conflict escalated and the sandstorms of war swept across Arrakis, Paul and Y/N stood together. In the quiet moments between battles, when the world seemed to hold its breath, they found solace in each other. Their love, born of destiny and choice, grew stronger with every passing day.

One night, as they stood beneath the star-streaked sky of Arrakis, Y/N turned to Paul, her robotic eyes shimmering in the moonlight.

“You’re afraid,” she said softly.

“I am,” Paul admitted, his voice low. “But not of the war. Of what I might become. Of the power I have to wield.”

Y/N stepped closer, her fingers brushing his jaw, a gentle touch that grounded him. “You are not alone, Paul. Together, we can face whatever comes. We can change the future, together.”

He pulled her into a kiss, soft and lingering, a promise of what they would build. As their lips met, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them, their love, their power, and the future they would shape.

In that moment, Paul knew that he had found something worth fighting for, not just the throne, not just power but something deeper, something eternal. And no matter what challenges lay ahead, he would face them with Y/N by his side.

𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨

The days stretched into weeks, and the conflict on Arrakis escalated as the Atreides’ struggle for control of the desert planet became all encompassing. The war raged on, against the Harkonnen, against the Emperor’s forces, against the very forces of fate itself. Yet, in the midst of it all, Paul and Y/N’s connection deepened.

Their secret moments were stolen between battles, hidden in the shadowed corners of the Atreides stronghold, or beneath the sprawling, endless skies of Arrakis. Despite the danger, despite the world crumbling around them, they clung to each other, finding solace in the love that had sprouted between them, unpredictable yet undeniable.

One such moment arrived after a particularly brutal confrontation with the Harkonnen forces. Paul had returned from the battlefield covered in dust and sweat, his face drawn with exhaustion. Y/N, ever the constant, found him as he entered his chambers, her presence like a steady flame in the darkened room.

Paul’s eyes softened when they met hers, and he exhaled deeply, releasing the weight of the day. His once clear blue eyes, now the same shade as hers, spoke volumes of the battles fought and those yet to come.

"You’ve been fighting all day," she said, her voice gentle, yet laced with concern. She stepped toward him, reaching up to touch his cheek, feeling the roughness of his stubble. "You need rest."

"I don’t know if I can," Paul replied, his voice distant, conflicted. "Every moment is a step toward the future, but I can’t see it clearly. There’s so much uncertainty...I see visions of us, of you but they are fragmented. Some of them...they frighten me."

Y/N’s gaze was unwavering as she stepped closer, her fingers softly tracing the curve of his jaw. "I am not afraid of the future, Paul. And neither should you be. We’ve waited for this moment, for this bond to come together. We can walk through it, side by side."

Paul inhaled deeply, absorbing her words. The soothing calmness she radiated began to settle his thoughts, grounding him as only she could. She was the anchor in the storm that was his destiny. He could no longer deny it.

"Stay with me," Paul whispered. "Help me make sense of all of this. You’ve been a part of the plan since the beginning. But I’ve changed. I’ve seen the possibilities of the future. I know I am meant for something greater than I can fully grasp. And maybe...you are too."

Y/N’s smile was soft, warm with affection. "I am no longer just a weapon, Paul. I was shaped for a purpose, yes, but now I am a part of something more. With you, I can feel it. Our bond is not one of politics or control. It is one of love, of choice. I choose you, Paul. I have always chosen you."

He looked at her, his expression softening into something tender and vulnerable. He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her palm, feeling the warmth of her skin against his. "Then I choose you, Y/N. We face this together. We will rewrite the future."

And as they stood together in the quiet of the night, the sounds of war distant yet ever present, they shared a moment of peace. Paul kissed her then, a kiss that spoke of promises made, of destinies intertwined. It was a kiss full of longing and hope, a silent vow to never let go, no matter the challenges ahead.

𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨

The Bene Gesserit had been watching. They knew Paul was growing increasingly unpredictable, his visions, his growing bond with Y/N, all of it had stirred something in the fabric of their plans. Jessica had felt the tension for months, but now, with each passing day, it became clear that Paul’s path would not align with their carefully laid designs.

One evening, Lady Jessica arrived in Paul’s chambers. The air was thick with tension as she met her son’s gaze. “Paul, we need to talk,” she began, her voice calm, but there was an undeniable urgency in it.

“I know what you’re going to say, Mother,” Paul said, his voice heavy with resignation. “You want me to turn away from Y/N. But I won’t. She is part of me now.”

Jessica’s eyes flashed with frustration. “She is a dangerous variable, Paul. The Bene Gesserit have been tracking her for decades. She was not meant to be part of your story.”

“Maybe it wasn’t meant to be anyone’s story but ours,” Paul replied, his voice unwavering. He glanced over his shoulder, catching Y/N’s eye. She stood just behind him, watching with quiet strength. “You don’t understand what she means to me. I’ve seen it, Mother. Our future together is more than just a bloodline. It’s about love. It’s about choice.”

Jessica’s gaze flickered to Y/N, the woman who had long been a mystery to her, whose presence now threatened the balance of power that the Bene Gesserit had worked so hard to maintain. “You think love is enough to change everything?” she asked, a sharp edge to her words. “You think that will stop the Bene Gesserit from ensuring their plans come to fruition?”

Y/N stepped forward then, her voice steady as she met Jessica’s gaze. “I don’t care about the Bene Gesserit’s plans. I care about him,” she said softly, her hand resting on Paul’s shoulder. “And he cares about me. The future is not set in stone, Jessica. We can make our own destiny.”

Paul nodded firmly, his hand covering Y/N’s in silent support. "She is right. We make our own fate, and we’ll face the consequences together."

Jessica’s eyes softened, but there was still a trace of doubt. "I never wanted this for you, Paul. I never wanted you to be caught in the middle of their games."

Paul met her gaze with newfound strength. "You’ve taught me to trust in my own power, Mother. And I will. With Y/N by my side, I will forge a new path for Arrakis, for our family, and for the future."

𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨

The rebellion against the Harkonnen forces reached its peak as the Atreides rallied their allies, with Paul and Y/N leading the charge. They stood side by side, not just as rulers, but as partners in every sense of the word.

The desert winds whipped around them as they stood atop a dune, gazing out at the battle unfolding below. Sandstreaked warriors fought with determination, their cries lost in the chaos of war.

"Are you ready?" Paul asked quietly, his gaze never leaving the horizon.

Y/N turned to him, her eyes gleaming with fierce resolve. "I’ve been ready for this moment for centuries."

And as the battle raged, their hands found each other once again, strong, steady, bound by something deeper than any political alliance or royal bloodline. They were united, not just by destiny, but by love and choice. Together, they would change the course of history.

𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨

The dust of war settled in the wake of the battle, and though the future remained uncertain, one thing was clear: Paul and Y/N had carved their own path. A path that led to the throne, yes, but more importantly, a path that led them to each other.

As the sun set on Arrakis, casting a golden light across the desert sands, Paul and Y/N stood together, looking out at the world they would shape.

"We will face everything that comes, together," Paul whispered, his lips brushing her ear.

Y/N smiled, her eyes shining with the certainty of their shared future. "Together, Paul. Always."

And as the winds of destiny swirled around them, they knew that no matter the trials ahead, they were stronger than the sum of their parts. The love between them would change the universe one choice at a time.

𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨𓆨

The days following the victory over the Harkonnen and the fall of the Emperor’s forces were filled with the quiet hum of change. The Atreides now stood as rulers of Arrakis, the planet once lost in the sands of time, now the heart of a new future. The desert winds, ever constant, whispered of the shifting tides of power, but beneath it all, a new dynasty was being born.

Paul Atreides sat upon the throne in the grand hall of the Atreides stronghold, his blue eyes reflecting the weight of leadership. But beside him, always beside him, stood Y/N. His equal. His partner. The one who had walked through the fires of destiny with him, not just as a symbol, but as the very core of his strength.

Their love had altered the very fabric of the universe. No longer merely a woman of mystery or a weapon of the past, Y/N had become something more, an integral part of the new world they had forged. Together, they had defied the expectations of those who had sought to control their fates. And together, they had emerged victorious.

The Bene Gesserit had retreated into the shadows, their plans thwarted, but the fear and control they once wielded had no place in Paul and Y/N's new vision for the future. The choices they had made were their own, and the consequences, while great, would not deter them. They had rewritten history.

In the halls of the stronghold, as night fell across the vast expanse of Arrakis, Paul and Y/N shared a rare moment of peace. They stood on the balcony, the dim orange glow of the setting sun casting long shadows over the endless desert, now a symbol of their rebirth.

Paul’s fingers traced the curve of Y/N’s hand, their palms pressed together. "Do you ever wonder, after everything we’ve been through, what the future will hold?" he asked softly, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken questions.

Y/N’s gaze lingered on the horizon, her blue eyes reflecting the twilight, the endless sands stretching before them. "I do," she replied, a smile tugging at her lips. "But not in the way I used to. I used to fear it. The unknown. The path laid before us, and the one that others expected us to follow."

Paul turned to her, his brow furrowing slightly. "And now?"

"Now," she said, her voice steady, "now I believe in the future we’ll create. A future we shape with every decision we make, with every choice we embrace together."

Her words carried weight, a promise not just to the empire they ruled, but to each other. They had been to the edge of the abyss, had touched the core of their destinies and come out stronger. Their bond, forged in the fires of war, was unbreakable. They were not just rulers, they were a symbol of what could be achieved when love and fate intertwined.

As they stood in silence, the stars began to appear above them, shining brightly in the night sky. It was a beautiful sight, the same stars that had guided their ancestors, that had witnessed the rise and fall of empires. But tonight, they were witness to something new. A new beginning.

"Together," Paul whispered, as if affirming to himself the weight of his words. "We’ll face whatever comes, side by side."

Y/N’s smile deepened as she turned to him, her hand resting over his heart. "Together," she echoed.

The universe may have shifted, but in that moment, with the stars above them and the vast desert stretching before them, Paul and Y/N knew they had already won the greatest battle of all, not for power, not for control, but for their love, for their shared vision of the future.

And as the winds of Arrakis continued to blow, carrying whispers of a new era, the world below them stirred with the promise of change. A new era of peace. A new era of unity. A new era of hope.

And they would rule it together, not as mere monarchs, but as something far greater. A force unstoppable, for the power of their love could conquer even the harshest desert winds.

As the first night of their reign fell, Paul and Y/N stood together on the balcony, hand in hand, looking out at the world they had conquered and the future they would build.

The sands of time had shifted. And the dawn of a new era had begun.

Together. Always.

#paul atreides x reader #paul atreides #paulatreides #dune #dune x reader #dune x you #dune x y/n #timothee chalamet x reader #timothee chalamet #x reader #y/n #paul atreides x you #paul atreides prompt #paul atreides imagines #dune fanfiction #dune fic #dune imagine

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thyras · 1 month ago

Text

→ of yearning & longing

PAIRING → halbrand | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 4.9k words

SERIES → of sauron & the moriquendi

WARNINGS → just LOTS of yearning and longing (y'all are probably sick of that by now), angst

SUMMARY → as fate draws you both ever closer, you can't help but feel the aching of centuries apart and what they have done to you.

AUTHORS NOTE → there is a sneaky celebrimbor x reader in this just cause ya know you do not spend five centuries hanging out closely and not have some non-platonic thoughts at times. i may be going on a little hiatus with this for a little teeny bit due to school starting this week. i have lots of homework and will not have time to devote to this, i have a plan for the whole story but i just need the time to execute it and that may be a couple of weeks. outside life calls.

PARTS → masterlist

“Is that really where you came from?” The little voice chimed, trembling with wonder. Her luminous eyes, wide as the moonrise over the woods, looked up at you as though you carried the secrets of the stars in your gaze. Her delicate hands clutched the hem of your robe’s sleeve, and in that touch, you could feel her burgeoning curiosity—a flame that, with care, would burn for centuries.

Your fingers traced the edge of an ancient, weathered page, its texture rough yet familiar, like the bark of the trees you once wandered among. The book felt alive in your hands, a relic of a bygone era, steeped in the whispers of the past. You had carried it through fire and shadow, across the tumultuous escape from Beleriand, a treasure nestled beside your husband’s intricate designs and other tokens of a life left behind. This book, though—it was more than mere parchment and ink. It was a fragment of your soul.

The illuminated script told of your people’s beginnings: the Moriquendi’s deep bond with the earth, their whispers shared with the roots of ancient oaks and the flowing rivers. It recounted the tale of Thingol and Melian, whose love was like a song woven into the fabric of Arda itself. It painted a picture of the grand realms of Beleriand—Doriath’s shadowy, enchanted forests; Gondolin’s shining spires hidden amidst the mountains; Laureandor, golden and resplendent under the eternal sun. Every page sang with memory, each word resonating with the cadence of forgotten voices.

“I came from the earth itself,” you murmured, your voice soft but rich, like the hum of wind over a meadow. “Awoke when Eru sang me into being.”

The little girl’s lips parted, her breath catching as she turned the words over in her mind. Her brow furrowed, and her tiny fingers fluttered in the air as she counted, her thoughts as transparent as the clear forest streams. “But that would make you…” she paused, consulting her fingers again, “over five thousand years old.”

A smile spread across your lips, slow and indulgent, tinged with the mischief of centuries. “A lady does not reveal her age, little one,” you said, tilting your head with mock severity. “It is very impolite.”

Her eyes widened, and her small voice rushed to apologize, faltering with earnestness. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

Before she could finish, you placed a hand gently atop her head, the warmth of your touch silencing her in an instant. The faint scent of the forests clung to her hair, and it brought memories of younger days. Leaning down, you pressed a soft kiss to her brow, a benediction as ancient as you were.

“There is no need to apologize,” you said, your tone tender, carrying the weight of countless ages. “I have lived many lives, seen the rise and fall of kingdoms, and passed through the shadowed woods of Middle-earth. Yet, it is my purpose to pass on what I know, as I was created to be a keeper of memory and a weaver of stories.”

Her wonder deepened, her small face lit by an unearthly glow as if your words had planted stars in her heart. The weight of the book in your hands seemed lighter now, for in her awe, you saw the continuation of the tale, the promise of futures yet to be written.

“Telling wild stories to young ears again?”

The familiar voice carried a hint of amusement, smooth as silver ringing against stone. You turned your head, and there he was—Lord Celebrimbor. His soft brown hair caught the light as he approached, and a genial smile touched his lips. His presence was steady and reassuring, and your own lips curved into a fond smile at the sight of your old friend.

“They are not wild stories,” you retorted, a playful edge sharpening your tone. “They are histories, Celebrimbor.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and rich, and continued his leisurely approach until he stood beside you. His eyes flicked down to the little girl perched beside you on the stone bench. She had been listening with the rapt attention only the young possessed, her small fingers clasped tightly in her lap.

“May I borrow her for a while?” he asked, his voice gentle but carrying a trace of mirth.

The little girl hesitated only briefly before nodding. She turned to you, her eyes luminous with hope and longing. “Can we continue tomorrow?”

You smiled softly, your heart swelling at her eagerness. “Same time,” you promised, inclining your head.

That was all she needed. With a delighted grin, she slid off the bench and ran, her fair hair catching in the soft breeze, flowing like a stream of gold as she disappeared down the path toward the town. You watched her go, warmth flooding your heart, an ache sweet and bittersweet settling in your chest.

All you had ever wanted was a family of your own—a child to hold, to nurture, to guide with the wisdom and love you carried in your light. Yet, unlike Melian and Thingol, such a blessing had never come to pass for you and Mairon. It was understandable. The shadow that lingered on the edges of his soul was not a burden that would be easily tempered. Still, in all the centuries and ages that had passed, the absence of that dream was a hollow place in your heart, a place no other joy could truly fill.

Even if the possibility of his darker nature manifesting more strongly in a child had weighed on your mind, you knew it wouldn’t have swayed your desire. You would have loved them fiercely, shielding them with your light and guiding them toward a brighter path. To nurture, to cherish, to offer a soul unyielding warmth—that was the essence of who you were.

Celebrimbor’s voice broke through your reverie, his tone soft with understanding. “You’re still thinking of it, aren’t you?”

You glanced up at him, surprised by his perceptiveness, but his gaze held no judgment. Only the quiet companionship of someone who had shared lifetimes and understood the burdens carried through them.

“It is a thought that never truly leaves me,” you admitted, your fingers brushing absently over the ancient book still resting on your lap.

He nodded, his expression solemn but kind. “Perhaps, in some way, you already have what you seek. In the little moments, the stories shared, the light you give to others.”

Your lips twitched upward in a bittersweet smile. “Perhaps,” you murmured, though in your heart, you knew the longing would always remain.

For now, you let it rest, soothed by the lingering warmth of the little girl’s trust. It was enough, if only for today.

“Elrond has returned with news from the Dwarves,” Celebrimbor announced, with a gentle smile.

You rose smoothly from the bench, the ancient book pressed to your chest as though safeguarding its secrets. The weight of it was comforting, a tether to times long past. Without hesitation, you moved to step alongside him, your robes swaying with each deliberate stride.

Together, you walked, the rhythm of your footsteps falling into an easy harmony, as if the centuries of shared purpose had been etched into the very earth beneath you. You hoped Elrond had brought good news, because the project was dangerously behind schedule. And there was only so much time left.

With each sway of the ship, Halbrand let the movements cradle him, like a lullaby he could not quite hear. He tried to lose himself in it, to let the rhythm of the waves wash away the heaviness in his chest. Yet his mind wandered relentlessly, tugging him back to places he could not escape. Memories, sharp and vivid as the stars reflected on dark waters, flared to life—pulling, aching, longing.

The burn of this mortal form was sharper, more immediate than the last. Where once he had armored himself against emotion, now they coursed through him unchecked, raw and consuming. He ached for you. For the touch of your hands, the solace of your voice, the brilliance of your mind. His soul felt unmoored without you, a drifting fragment searching for its other half.

When he had awakened in this new life, the frost-laden air of winter biting his skin, his first thought had been of you. He had reached out across the unseen threads of the world, yearning to feel even the faintest echo of your presence. He had scoured the vastness of Arda with his mind and heart, desperate for a whisper, a glimmer, a trace of you among the living. But there had been nothing. The silence was deafening.

The thought of your absence had carved an emptiness into him. You, who were among the first to walk this land, who carried the songs of creation in your very being. It was possible—heartbreaking, unbearable, but possible—that you had faded into the earth itself, surrendered to your grief for him. The thought sent shards of pain through him, sharper than any blade.

Yet, as the days turned into weeks and his strength returned, faint signs began to emerge, like footprints in the snow. In dreams, he found you. Glimpses of your face, your eyes—those luminous, eternal eyes—would appear to him, soft and shining, filled with the golden light of Laureandor’s unending dawns.

In these dreams, you were radiant as you had been in the days of your joy. He would see you wandering among the gardens of that sacred city, the eternal sunrise painting your skin in hues of warmth. He would reach for you, yearning to touch the softness of your shoulders, to trace his fingers along your arms, to hold you as he had in those golden days. He would try, so desperately, to drink in the memory of your scent—jasmine, lilac, and the faint sweetness of raspberries—an essence burned into his soul as deeply as your name.

But it never came to pass. Before you could even acknowledge that he was searching for you—and you almost had, on more than one occasion—the shadows of Morgoth’s curse would rise, relentless and cruel. They dragged you away from him, shrouding your presence in darkness and sending him back into his own mind. Each time, the pain surged through him like a tidal wave, dropping him to his knees in the prison of his thoughts. He would cry out, his voice raw, begging to touch you, to hold you, to feel even the faintest trace of your light once more.

It was not until he had regained moderate strength, his resolve steeled against the ever-looming shadow, that he managed to push past it and reach you again. This time, the veil parted, and he saw you.

The scene unfolded like a long-lost dream: you, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, your beauty ethereal and untouched by the years. You sat at your dressing table, a brush gliding through your hair with deliberate, graceful strokes, and your lips parted slightly as you hummed a melody. It was a song he knew well—one you had sung in the golden days of Laureandor, when life felt eternal and untainted. He had heard it many times, lying in bed and watching you with quiet reverence, soaking in the warmth of your presence, your radiance.

“Mori?” His voice trembled as it left him, his shadows quaking around the edges of your sanctuary, a fragile boundary between worlds. Yet you did not turn. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment met his call.

Moments passed, heavy and laden with hope and despair, until your movements stilled. The brush in your hand hovered above the table, and your gaze fell to the small jewelry box resting there. Your fingers reached out, trembling ever so slightly as they hovered over the box’s delicate clasp, hesitating as though the act of opening it would summon something too painful to bear.

He stepped closer, his presence behind you a silent echo of who he had been. As you unclasped the box, the faint creak of its hinges seemed to reverberate through the room, a sound both tender and haunting. Inside, nestled in the velvet lining, lay a chain and a ring—the very ones he had forged for you.

The sight of them hit him like a blow, a torrent of emotions flooding through him. The memories surged—of molten metal and careful hands, of pouring himself into the craft, shaping his love and devotion into something tangible. He had made the chain and blue jewel to rest lightly against your skin, the ring to shine as brightly as the Two Great Lamps that they were forged under, unknowing of why he yearned to craft a marvel. All when he was your Mairon. Your sweet Mairon.

He reached out, his hand trembling as it hovered just behind your shoulder, yearning to touch you, to reclaim even a fragment of what they had once shared. But the shadows still lingered, cruelly mocking him, as if to remind him that he could watch, he could ache, but he could not hold you—not yet.

You slammed the jewelry box closed and turned away, the sharp snap echoing through the room. The pain of your mark flared again, forcing you to retreat from the part of him that had once been poured so fully into that ring and chain. The sight of your reaction caused his anger to flare, a shadowy frustration that burned hotter as his eyes drifted to your wrist. The mark there pulsed with darkness, black tendrils crawling like living veins up your skin, a visible reminder of Morgoth’s curse.

But then, in a moment that stole his breath, your hand rose instinctively to the golden chain around your neck. Your fingers brushed over the crimson jewel nestled against your skin, caressing it softly. As if in answer, the darkness on your wrist began to fade, the tendrils retreating as though repelled by the warmth emanating from the chain.

His chain.

It seemed to bring you no pain, even in the face of the shadows. Unlike the jewelry in the box, this piece of his work had not been tainted. He realized with awe that the elven hands that had enhanced it in its making had infused it with a power greater than he had imagined. It radiated warmth, a steady comfort amidst the storm of darkness and shadow that plagued you both.

He remembered the night it was placed around his own neck, a gift for a moment of unity and love. He had been hesitant, even fearful, as the chain hovered above him. He had known its nature—that it would burn him if his soul was not pure of light. The stone would have seared his skin and marked his darkened fingers if the darkness in him had prevailed.

But that had not happened.

In your presence, beneath your unwavering light, he had bathed in something he had thought lost to him. The darkness had been pushed back, retreating into the recesses of his being. For that fleeting time, he had become whole again. He had become your Mairon.

You had turned his heart pure, if only for a moment. And in that moment, his whole being had prospered, the shadows receding as the brilliance of your love and light filled the void within him. Even now, the memory of that time was a beacon in his mind, a reminder of who he had been and who he might yet become.

He had pulled away from your mind, granting you a brief moment of solace. But his absence was only temporary. He returned, filling your mind with his deepest, most desperate desires. Shadows crept in again, curling around you as he reached out, hoping—aching—that you might welcome him this time. Welcome him with your warmth. With your light.

“Nightmares again?”

The voice pulled him abruptly from his reverie. Halbrand’s gaze shifted to Diarmid, whose head had lifted from his makeshift pillow, the dim glow of the ship’s lantern casting shadows across his weathered face. The old man’s eyes were sharp, even in the low light, watching him with a curious, almost knowing expression.

Halbrand hesitated. His instinct was to keep his thoughts buried, locked away where no one could reach them. Yet, there was something about Diarmid’s persistent, uninvited concern that made resistance seem futile. The old man had a knack for prying, for picking at the seams of Halbrand’s carefully guarded silence. At times, it irritated him to no end.

But tonight? Tonight, he found himself willing to entertain it.

“Something like that,” Halbrand said at last, his voice low and rough, as though the shadows in his mind lingered still. He leaned back against the ship’s support the cool air brushing against his skin, though it did little to quell the heat of the turmoil within.

Diarmid’s brow furrowed slightly, his curiosity sharpening. “Dreams, then? Or memories?”

Halbrand’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Does it matter?”

The old man shrugged, sitting up more, but his gaze remained unwavering. “Only if you think it does.”

Halbrand said nothing, his eyes drifting around the cargo hold. The waves lapped against the hull, their rhythm both soothing and relentless, much like the memories that refused to leave him. He could still feel the ghost of you in his mind, the ache of what he’d shown you, the fragile hope that you might yet answer his call.

He exhaled slowly before speaking. “I’ve done evil,” Halbrand admitted, his voice low and rough, his gaze fixed on the shifting shadows of the night instead of the old man beside him.

“All of us have done things we care not to admit,” Diarmid replied, his tone laced with a quiet understanding.

Halbrand chuckled bitterly to himself. If he only knew. His mind drifted back to you, to the weight of his greatest sin: the evil he had cast like a shadow over your life. Even now, he could feel the heaviness of your hairpiece tucked into the waistband of his pants, the cold metal pressing against his skin. It was a token he could not part with, tarnished by time and freezing temperatures, yet priceless beyond measure.

He had gone back for it, braving danger and decay to retrieve a piece of you. To him, it was a relic—a tangible fragment of the happiest memory he possessed. He clutched it like a lifeline, wishing with every fiber of his being that he could bask in the light of that moment once more. But that light was gone, and the darkness of his choices had set a path that could not be undone.

His plan, even now delayed, was in motion. And with every passing day, he drew closer to you.

“That trinket you carry,” Diarmid’s voice cut into his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. “A family heirloom? Or perhaps a token of a lost love?”

Halbrand’s eyes darkened as they snapped to the old man, his glare sharp and unyielding. But then, to his own surprise, he spoke the truth.

“It was my wife’s,” he murmured softly, his voice a shadow of itself.

“Lost, then?” Diarmid asked, his expression solemn but kind.

Halbrand shrugged, the gesture dismissive, though the pain in his chest betrayed his indifference. “I am unsure.”

Diarmid nodded slowly. “Did she know of this evil that you had done?”

Halbrand’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. The truth of it was inescapable. You had known. You had always known. And despite that knowledge, you had remained devoted to him, loving him with a fierceness that sometimes bordered on blind faith. You had stood by him, willing to follow wherever he led, even when it cost you dearly.

To be worshipped by the one he loved—by you—had been a divine feeling. One that lingered even now, haunting him.

“Then do not dwell in what was,” Diarmid said after a moment, his voice calm and steady. “For all is forgiven to her.”

But Halbrand knew better. Forgiveness was a lie. He had burned your world down, not once but countless times over. He had tried to repent, to make amends for the ruin he had caused, but when the cost became clear—eternal separation, eternal damnation for the both of you—he had fled. He had run from the truth of what his true repentance required. Not able to accept the words of beings that had once hunted him down like an animal.

“Now you must find forgiveness in yourself,” Diarmid continued, breaking through the silence. “You are here, with the hope of seeing her once more, wherever she might be. All because you have chosen good on this day.”

“And what of tomorrow?” Halbrand asked, his voice heavy with the weight of his doubts.

“You choose it again,” Diarmid said simply. “And then the next day, and the day after that, until it is part of your nature.” A soft smile crossed the old man’s lips, his words as gentle as the first light of dawn.

Halbrand said nothing, his mind swimming with memories of what he had once been.

Mairon had been good. He had loved, deeply and without restraint. He had danced in the light, sung with his whole fëa, and devoted himself to the one who had been his guiding star. Day after day, he had chosen to be admirable, to be worthy of the love you gave so freely.

Sauron, though… Sauron was irredeemable in the eyes of all but one.

Yours.

You had clung to the hope that the light could penetrate the shadow once more. You had believed in him when no one else did, holding on to the belief that the spark of goodness within him still existed. And he had told you once, long ago, that his light was embedded in you, waiting to return to him when the darkness had faded.

But the darkness had never faded.

And now more than ever it crept even closer, begging to swallow him further.

Over the weeks, you had lingered in the hazy solace of your dreams, refusing to wake from the gentle caresses and whispered promises of your husband. His touch, his voice, his presence—it all felt so real in the quiet sanctuary of your slumber. You clung to him desperately, even as he faded, unwilling to release him to the waking world. For when you did, you knew you would wake to the cold emptiness of your bed, the hollow ache in your heart once more reminding you of the loneliness that consumed your days. The sunlight seemed dimmer now, as if mourning alongside you, its warmth unable to pierce the sorrow that wrapped itself around you. His words of patience echoed in your mind, but the longing you carried was shifting—slowly, insidiously—into grief once more. And the shadows whispered to you, their call growing ever louder.

“Everything well?”

Celebrimbor’s voice broke through your reverie, and you startled slightly before turning to him. He stood across the small forge, his keen eyes watching you with gentle concern. You offered him a cheerful smile, though it barely masked the weariness tugging at your features.

“Yes, of course, my lord,” you replied, trying to sound lighthearted.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I can tell when you’re lying, Thilwen.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you quickly turned back to the parchment before you. The last bit of correspondence for the day was nearly finished, and you placed your quill back in the inkpot with careful precision. Blowing on the ink to dry, you focused intently, determined to ignore Celebrimbor’s prying gaze. Though he rarely ventured into matters of your personal life, he worried for you on occasion. He had seen the signs: your faraway stares, the way you flinched at the faintest creak of a door, the late-night strolls through the courtyard where you seemed to murmur to no one.

“I am fine—” you started, but Celebrimbor crossed the room in a few strides and placed his hand firmly on the parchment, cutting you off.

“Go,” he said, his voice gentle but resolute. “You look exhausted. I will finish this.”

“But—” you began to protest, but he shook his head.

“No buts. You’ve been working harder than ever, and I need your mind sharp once the forge is complete. We’ll have plenty of work ahead of us.” His expression softened as he added, “Rest, Thilwen. Truly rest.”

You hesitated for a moment, but the warmth of his concern and the firmness in his tone left no room for argument. But instead of rising you only sat back in your chair as you moved to rub your eyes, you wanted to rest more than anything but it would only make your grief and sorrow flourish.

“Thilwen?” Celebrimbor prompted with a raised brow.

“I can’t sleep,” you murmured, a shred of truth in the words. Celebrimbor moved to sit across from you. “I keep having dreams.” You paused, hesitating wether or not to even tell Celebrimbor, but he was one of your oldest friends and was always full of wisdom, even more than you. A child of Ilúvatar.

“Nightmares about your husband again?” Celebrimbor’s voice was careful, yet tinged with the barest hint of curiosity. It wasn’t entirely off the mark, though to call it a nightmare felt wrong. If one could call being driven to the edge by the ghostly caress of your husband’s touch a nightmare, then perhaps he was right. But that was none of Celebrimbor’s business.

“Some nights I see the white towers burning,” you began, your voice steady though your chest felt tight. “Others I see fellow elves—”

You didn’t have to finish. Celebrimbor’s hand reached across the small space between you and settled gently on your arm. His touch was soothing, an anchor in the storm of your words.

You weren’t lying. There were nights when your husband’s presence didn’t soften your dreams, when his whispers didn’t guide you into a fragile comfort. Instead, there were nights when the weight of old memories and distant faces overwhelmed you.

You saw them clearly—people you had loved, places you had walked—now all reduced to ruin. The brilliance of their existence snuffed out beneath the crushing weight of your husband’s oppressive hand. The burning white towers haunted you, their light extinguished by shadow, and the faces of those you cherished twisted with pain and betrayal.

Celebrimbor’s touch tightened slightly, grounding you. “You are not alone in this grief,” he said softly, his voice as steady as his presence. But in your heart, you knew your grief was far more complex than he could ever understand.

Because no one but you could love the hand that had wrought such destruction—and still long for it in the dark of night.

“It is alright; all is in the past. We have endured the darkest of days with our kin, and now we look to craft a brighter future,” Celebrimbor said, his voice steady and filled with quiet conviction. His hand gave your arm a gentle squeeze, a small gesture of comfort before his tone turned teasing. “But please, do go get some rest—you look awful, my dear.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound lightening the heaviness in your chest as you stood and pushed your chair neatly under the table. Stepping closer to him, you placed your hand on his cheek in a warm, familiar gesture. Celebrimbor’s smile softened at your touch, a warmth radiating from him that you had come to know so well over the centuries.

For five centuries, you had known his affection. Though it was unspoken and never crossed into anything beyond platonic, it was evident in the way he treated you. Others had noticed, whispering of how his gaze lingered on you longer than it did on anyone else, how his words carried a gentler tone when they were meant for you, and how his kindness toward you surpassed what he offered even his closest smiths.

But no matter what others said, Celebrimbor knew your heart belonged to another. He carried on with his immortal longing for greatness, his own ambitions burning brightly. Perhaps, somewhere in the depths of his heart, he held a quiet yearning for you as well. Yet, he had always respected the boundaries of your devotion, never once letting his affection compromise the steadfastness of your bond.

For your fëa sung for only one being.

The melody you shared with your husband was eternal, unshakable. It was a song that no other could replicate, a harmony woven in the light that existed between only the two of you. Even in his absence, even in grief so profound it threatened to consume you, you knew you would never betray that song. To do so would be to betray yourself.

“I will try to do so,” you said, letting your hand fall back to your side. You turned toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back at him. “Good night, my lord.”

“Good night, my lady,” Celebrimbor replied with a small bow, his voice soft and reverent as you stepped out into the quiet night, carrying with you the weight of an unyielding love and the memories of what had been.

#sauron x reader #halbrand x reader #sauron #halbrand #trop fic #the rings of power #rings of power fic

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maxwell-grant · 3 months ago

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I know a lot of people are talking about Penguin as Collin's 'Heath Ledger Joker' moment (something I disagree with as Penguin has been on this Modern Gangster trajectory for a while) but, do you think the reception of this show will change how Sofia Falcone is used in the comics? Using the word 'Used' very loosely since I think she showed up for LH/DV and barely anything else.

I actually can very much see where this would be his "Heath Ledger moment". Not exactly the same, I don't think that's really possible, but it is comparable in some ways of what it means and what the response to it has been: This is the biggest and greatest thing this character has ever starred in or will ever be in, this is his big redefining turn on the spotlight to massive unexpected critical acclaim, this is THE 21st Century Update that every other new version will try and fail to live up to, this is the biggest mark he'll ever leave in pop culture, I Can Take This Guy Seriously Now, this is the Pop Culture Shorthand that everyone knows now, this is gonna be called Overrated and Fake and Cringe Actually in a few weeks or months and the traditionalists already despise it but everyone knows this is the version that matters now, and so on.

Because even if Penguin had been a gangster since the 90s, to be blunt, Gangster Penguin has never mattered. In fact, the Penguin became a gangster in the first place because he stopped mattering, as a concession to the idea that The Penguin couldn't really hack it as a supervillain anymore and couldn't be taken seriously in the new Frank Miller era of Batman and it's ritualistic unpersoning of everything Adam West that ultimately made him and Riddler scapegoats for everything camp, and so he had to become a new thing entirely. And so the last 40 years of the character have been defined around the notion that he is too popular and iconic to be dealt away with, but that maybe he just can't hack it as a major enemy to Batman anymore, his supervillain persona doesn't work, that he's a problem to be solved and a relic of dumber times and "a fat guy with an umbrella" who never is and never was a real threat, and so the past 29 years since 'Tec 683, the issue that started this concept, have been oriented around building him as a guy who can be still be effective and scary and vile enough to be worth keeping around in Gotham even if he will never really be one of the Big Batman Villains again, who can provide at minimum a cool location for things to happen while he waits for a plot to happen to him instead.

So if anything, this is a much bigger deal to him than The Dark Knight ever was to the Joker. Sure, The Dark Knight redefined pop culture overnight to an extent this didn't and it redefined the Joker, but people always popped for the Joker, people always turned up en masse for the Joker, the Joker's position has never been demoted, the Joker already had cultural victory laps beforehand. And now, in a far cry from 40 fucking years of an admission of defeat as far as this guy being a supervillain who matters, the past week has seen everyone pop for The Penguin and call for it to win awards, and it has seen everyone scream and curse and yell that this guy needs to be in more movies so Batman can punch him, that Batman needs to stop this horrible affront to humanity who has begun to take over the city and steamrolled every other force that opposed him. The Penguin pushed his own mother and the people's heroine and our beloved son under a traincart and now nothing in the world is holy and beautiful anymore, and if Batman doesn't stop him nobody will.

But as for Sofia? She is just a new character. She has next to nothing in common with the comics version, she's not even purposefully out to deconstruct or subvert the violent inscrutable psycho villain that is comics Sofia so much as comics Sofia happens to fall under the broader archetype of Batman Villains she becomes and comments on. In the comics, Sofia Falcone has been completely dead and gone for over 20 years and nobody has even tried to bring her back. Carmine gets to be in shit every now and then, but with the exception of Gotham, she has never been featured in anything at all up until now. She just does not exist past the Loeb/Sale duology and nobody has ever cared to change that until now. The same is true of all the mobster nobodies in Gotham that were elevated into actual characters in the show, like Johnny Viti and even Sal Maroni, but she is obviously the crowning achievement in that category.

But while I don't think anyone would go through the trouble to resurrect comics Sofia Falcone and overhaul her entire design and personality to make her like Cristin Milioti, there will definitely be attempts to create another Sofia, because the breakout superstar of the show is essentially a new character who, if nothing else, has firmly cemented herself as The Penguin's Arch-Enemy, and so I predict there will be attempts to create such a figure in comics modeled after Sofia. It happens to pretty much every character who's ever made it big in a comic adaptation. In fact I'm sure somebody's gonna try and put Victor Aguilar in a comic someday, as a simple shout-out to the show or as a "oh man I really liked Penguin having a Robin he should have one for real" thing or as a "oh man it was really sick when Penguin killed his sidekick, I gotta do my own version of that" thing, and it will be at best cute but most likely groan-inducing, but it's gonna happen regardless.

Big problem with that is that not every character from a comic adaptation can make a transition to comics. Batman in particular has lots of examples of popular acclaimed villains that didn't make the jump to comics or struggled to do so or were heavily changed as a result. Harley Quinn rather struggled with this, and her eventual turn to anti-hero was in large part because she was just never going to work or survive for long when paired with the comics version of the Joker. Comics Joker is a different and much nastier character than TAS Joker, there wouldn't be much justification for Comics Joker to tolerate or not kill her, and she was never going to remain bubbly and sympathetic and redeemable in her role if she went along with what that guy does on a regular basis (which is part of why she doesn't actually have a redemption arc - she has atoned for nothing and she has nothing to atone for because her past life with comics Joker doesn't actually exist and they can't get into what that would look like, so they just act like the history they had in the cartoon counts as shorthand). Baby Doll stars in one of the most acclaimed tragic episodes in one of the most highly critically acclaimed versions of Batman, but she's a weird character with little staying power even in the show, with lots of reasons why nobody ever even tried to carry her over to mainline Batman comics (well, I guess Christian Ward just announced they're giving it a shot, as I was typing this out). Everybody loves The Music Meister, everybody goes nuts for the Neil Patrick Harris Batman villain who single-handedly justifies a musical episode, and why wouldn't they, the idea self-evidently rocks, but he simply does not work outside of a medium with audio and so he will never be anything in a comic book. And Sofia Gigante is one of those characters that you'd just have a very hard time transposing into the Batman comics as is.

I wanted to see if I could tell a Rosemary Kennedy–esque story, and also flip on its head the comic-book tradition of how everyone who comes from Arkham is a psychopath. It felt exciting and fun to me to lead the audience down a path of all these preconceived notions of what we think of someone who comes from Arkham, but also how common it is to label women as insane. I mean, you can look at people like Britney Spears, for instance. Mental institutions used to do these terrible things to women, and women would be deemed hysterical and be thrown into an institution. That wasn’t that long ago. - Lauren LeFranc

The context that defines Sofia, her characterization, what Arkham represents in her life and to this world at large, exists almost in direct contrast to the way Batman stories work. She is a product of a story that gets to rebuild Gotham and actually unpack and twist and defy what Arkham traditionally means, in part because it doesn't have to meet the demands of a revolving door of monsters to fight every month for decades. There is no mistaking the Epic Crime Saga's take on Arkham Asylum as any kind of necessary evil, as a force that needs to hold all these evil Jokers in check. The walls of Arkham falling and it's inmates escaping into the streets is one of the top 10 worst things that can happen to Batman at any given time, next to having to wrangle the Teen Titans and Bane deciding to break something different of his that year, but if it were to happen in the world Reeves and LeFranc created, even if it meant the Riddler and the Joker escaping, we would enthusiastically cheer for the freedom of these people, and for the punishment of every doctor and guard complicit in caging and dehumanizing them, and for the total destruction of Arkham Asylum so no one may ever again be trapped inside it's walls, which is, again, not at all where Batman stories are usually at regarding Arkham Asylum, even the ones that paint it as a horrible cursed place.

I don't think you can have Sofia's story take place in regular Batman comics because, even removing how Reeves' Gotham and Falcone Family and etc were constructed, there's the issue that A: either you would keep her story unchanged and raise a ton of unsolvable questions and thorns, because there is no way we would accept Batman doing nothing to stop this place from existing or continuing to constantly let people get sent back there, or B: you'd have to then twist Sofia around the comic book version of Arkham and Gotham and the Batman status quo, and thus you'd rob said story of power and meaning and tragedy and then, why even bother. The show treads a lot of fine lines in how Sofia is depicted, how over-the-top and sadistic and camp she can get while still being nuanced and complicated and tragic, where her every decision comes from, what she's commenting on, how her morality works, and all these things it gets to do under the control of mostly one writer who rules at her job and doesn't have to contort this around editorial demands or future writers and etc, all those things that would ultimately detract from the character.

So yeah, I don't think we will see anything change with comics Sofia anytime soon, that character never mattered and still doesn't matter now, but I think pretty soon we might see "a" Sofia pop up in Batman comics, a character blatantly inspired by her or ripping her off, and I do think Sofia Falcone will show up again in subsequent alternate takes. Again, if nothing else, she is The Penguin's Nemesis, and that kind of stuff tends to stick more than what Bella Real and Victor Aguilar are doing. I do think there will be attempts to recapture her and most of those attempts will probably suck. Like, as is, I do hope future writers and artists do things with Sofia, because she's now one of my top 7 favorite Batman villains and I think she deserves to be welcomed into Rogues Gallery royalty the same way Mr.Freeze was on the basis of Heart of Ice alone, but also, I don't have any particular need to see anyone other than Lauren LeFranc write this character, because I don't think anyone other than her is gonna be able to write the real Sofia, y'know?

I'd like to be proven wrong and that there are really great takes on her out there waiting to happen, but as is, I feel about her the same way I feel about a lot of Batman things nowadays, in that the real Sofia Gigante is the one that Cristin Milioti played and will hopefully get to play again. Anything else that came before or will come after, good or bad, is just there. The real version of Batman that matters is what Reeves and co. are doing on the screen - anything else is just gravy, y'know.

#replies tag #dc comics #batman #the penguin #the penguin hbo #sofia falcone #sofia gigante #cristin milioti

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